#raves

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels. ↗

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

#death #death-angel #footprints #gravestone #death

I have seen him set fire to his wigwam and smooth over the graves of his fathers... clap his hand in silence over his mouth, and take the last look over his fair hunting ground, and turn his face in sadness to the setting sun. ↗

— George Catlin

#face #fair #fathers #fire #graves

Cable TV brought the Braves into homes all across America in the 1970s, by the 1980s the Braves were “America’s Team,” and by the 1990s the Braves were the most dominant team in baseball. ↗

— Tucker Elliot

#baseball #home

There's no money in poetry, but there's no poetry in money, either. ↗

— Robert Graves

#money

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. ... What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. ↗

— Walt Whitman

#grass #graves #life #beauty

It is upon such stones that men attempt to permanently etch history so they will not exist in a vacuum; it is the final statement after a lifetime of scratching out divisions upon the ground, over ephemeral time itself, merely to give their short journeys meaning, to tell others “I was here – do not forget me, do not let my brief blast dissolve into nothingness. ↗

— Rob Bignell

#gravestone #meaninglessness #tombstone #men

Here lies one from a distant star, but the soil is not alien to him, for in death he belongs to the universe. ↗

— Clifford D. Simak

#death #gravestone #science #science-fiction #stars

The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. ↗

— Harriet Beecher Stowe

#deeds #graves #left #over #shed

I went across the fields to avoid the straight highways, along the firing lines where people were shooting at a small wooded hill, which is now covered with wooden crosses and lines of graves instead of spring flowers. ↗

— Max Beckmann

#along #avoid #covered #crosses #fields

We weep over the graves of infants and the little ones taken from us by death; but an early grave may be the shortest way to heaven. ↗

— Tryon Edwards

#early #grave #graves #heaven #infants